


like the breaking of glass

by spacefleeting



Series: i'd be home with you [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Conflict, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury Recovery, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Mutual Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Romantic Tension, the violence happens offscreen but injuries will be referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-03-26 15:19:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19008451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacefleeting/pseuds/spacefleeting
Summary: "Bucky refuses to call it a crush.  He's a super-soldier that's something like a hundred years old and has killed more people than he can count.  He doesn't get crushes.But he can't help it.  He misses Matt."-After several months of dropping by Bucky's place almost every night to get stitched up, or drink his coffee, or flirt, or some combination of the three, Matt's visits stop with no warning.  Bucky worries.





	1. the absence of green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> back at it again with more mattbucky because i'm hooked and SOMEONE has to provide content for this rarepair. this is a sequel to 'like this morning reveals to me' although it can probably be read on its own. fic title and all chapter titles are from "wasteland, baby!" by hozier <3 thanks again to beck for getting me into this pairing and also being my #1 hypeman.

It's been a week and five days since Bucky has last seen Matt.

When Steve asks, Bucky just says it's been a while, because it's not like he's _counting_.  It's just hard not to feel the stark contrast between having Matt tumble through his window almost every night and the absolute radio silence he's getting now.  Nights where Matt would visit always seemed to go by in a blink of an eye -- one moment he would be flopping on the couch next to Bucky or shaking him awake, the next moment the sun would be just about to rise and Bucky would hastily shove a cup of coffee into Matt's hands and laugh while he chugs it before running back to his apartment to get ready for work.  And now Bucky's nights no longer flash by but stretch themselves out, taking up time and space that shouldn't even exist, and he has no choice but to wonder if this is what his life was like before he met Matt and he's only noticing it now that he's gone, or if Matt Murdock really changed his life that much.

He's really not sure which would be worse.

Because the thing is, Bucky _misses_ Matt, and he really shouldn't.  At least not this much. It's one thing to be worried, he tells himself, or even to miss having someone around that often.  But it's a completely different thing to be missing Matt's smile, or the timbre of his laugh, or the way he almost always keeps a point of contact between them by leaning into Bucky when he's stitching him up or even when they're just relaxing on the couch. 

Because the _other_ thing is, all those things he's missing are the exact things he's been trying to ignore for the few months, and Bucky's not really sure what to do with that.  If he misses Matt's laugh that means he misses the feeling he gets in his chest when he hears it, and he's not allowed to miss that. He barely even allows himself to feel it in the first place, and that's only because he hopes it'll run its course and he'll get over it soon -- not just the way he feels when Matt laughs, but all of it, all the different ways his being lights up when Matt enters his orbit.

Bucky refuses to call it a crush.  He's a super-soldier that's something like a hundred years old and has killed more people than he can count.  He doesn't get crushes.

But he can't help it.  He misses Matt.

He _is_ also worried, though.  Matt's gone a few days without dropping by before, but he gave Bucky his phone number a month and a half ago for that reason -- "So I can let you know I'm not dead in a ditch, like I do with Foggy" he'd said.  Bucky had laughed at the time, but Matt had apparently been serious, because he'd started texting Bucky on the nights he didn't come over. The texts were always short, always a variation on the same theme -- "Home safe," or "Made it back," or "In for the night" -- and so routine Bucky even didn't notice the way he'd started checking for them until they stopped coming.  He feels uneasy in their absence.

When Bucky finally tells Steve about it, a week after Matt stops visiting, Steve frowns.  "Why don't you just text him and ask if he's alright?"

"It doesn't work like that," is Bucky's response, because it's true.  At first, Bucky had let Matt take the lead in their friendship because he'd reminded him of the stray cats that lived in the alley behind his apartment before he befriended them -- skittish and ready to bolt at any wrong move -- but then it had just become the norm.  Matt was the one who texted first, or came to visit Bucky, or dragged Bucky back to Matt's apartment to get stitched up on the nights they've run into each other on patrol, or on the rarer ones, the ones where Matt asks Bucky to come with him. He can count the nights he's gone over to Matt's apartment on his own initiative on one hand and he wouldn't even use all his fingers.  Matt's always seemed genuinely pleased to see him when he shows up, always ushers him inside and tells him to make himself at home, but Bucky has never quite been able to shake the feeling that no, this is wrong, this isn't how it's supposed to be.

After Bucky explains all of that, Steve gives him another one of his _looks_ , and because Bucky knows Steve better than he knows himself, he knows that it roughly translates to ' _I think you're being stupid, but I can tell if I press this right now you're going to get mad, so I won't, but I really need you to know I think you're stupid_.'  Which is annoying, but it's also fair. 

And true to his unvocalized word, Steve doesn't mention anything about Matt for the rest of the night.  They finally finish _Return of the King_ around two in the morning and crash into Bucky's bed to get a few hours of sleep before Steve goes to meet Sam for their run and inevitably wakes Bucky up with his early-morning bumbling around the kitchen.  How Steve survived all their stealth raids on HYDRA during the war is something Bucky will never be able to figure out.

Steve settles down his side with Bucky curled around him from behind, one arm slung across his waist.  It's not unusual for them to end up like this after one of their pop-culture-catch-up marathons, but every time it reminds Bucky of the nights they would spend on his living room floor, when they would use the couch cushions as mattresses because his actual mattress was too small to fit them both, when Steve was a whole lot smaller and they were both a whole lot younger.  Bucky doesn't really miss anything the era they grew up in except the friends he left behind, and he's gotten pretty good at moving on, but these nights still bring him an almost unspeakable amount of comfort in the knowledge that some things, at least, will never change.

Bucky tucks his face into the back of Steve's neck and lets their breathing sync up as it becomes so slow and deep that he thinks Steve must have fallen asleep, until he gently grabs Bucky's hand and whispers, "I still think you should text him.  He cares about you. I doubt he wants you to worry like this."

Bucky sighs and squeezes his hand back.  "Go to sleep, Steve."

"Mm.  Goodnight, Buck."

"G'night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading!! sorry this chapter is so short, i didn't initially intend for this to be a chaptered fic but it kind of got out of control, and i figured it would work better with the different beats of the story split up like this. the next chapters will be longer! and i have....about 8k of the rest of the fic written already altho i'm still working on it (ope) so updates will hopefully come quickly. kudos and comments are of course always encouraging!


	2. the start of all things that are left to do

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this barely has any plot relevance but please know this fic (and tbh any mcu fic i write) exists in an au where mcu clint, aka terrible bastard man, doesn't exist and instead we have comics clint, aka hawkguy, aka also kind of a bastard man but one who is also friend

Bucky wakes up when Steve shimmies his way out of his arms at six in the morning. He grumbles a token protest at being jostled but doesn't move, instead letting himself lie there, drifting cozily in and out of consciousness until Steve's slamming of the kitchen cabinets gets too loud to be anything other than intentional, and Bucky forces himself to get out of bed and stumble into the living room to yell at him to shut up before the neighbors start complaining.

Steve immediately starts laughing at the sight of Bucky's annoyed face, and then he's shoving a plate of eggs and toast into his hands while simultaneously giving him a good morning hug, and then he's out the door before Bucky can even get single a word out. He's left standing alone in his living room in a t-shirt and boxers, clutching his breakfast and feeling thoroughly disgruntled. Goddamn Steve and his early morning energy.

He glowers at his eggs for a moment, as if they're directly responsible for the super-soldier tornado he just experienced, before grudgingly taking a bite. His irritation drains away almost immediately, because even if he's loud, Steve does make really good eggs.

Bucky takes his time getting ready for the day. He puts a podcast on and eats his breakfast slowly, almost choking on his toast when he laughs too hard at one of the jokes. Steve had emptied his dishwasher, which in hindsight explains the banging, but Bucky still takes the time to wash his plate in the sink before refilling the water bowls he leaves on his fire escape for the neighborhood cats (and rats, and raccoons).

Bucky loves mornings like this, the slow ones where he gets to wander aimlessly around his apartment and watch the light filtering in through his windows shift from a hazy predawn gray to shades of pink and yellow. He doesn't get them often, which is fine -- usually he's up early to join Steve and Sam on their runs, or Natasha for one of her abs workouts that leave even him feeling dead afterwards, or even Clint for occasional weight lifting, despite Clint's claims that every day should be arm day. He likes having a routine. He's not sure which part of it helps the most -- the regularity, the workout, the light socialization -- or if it's the combination of all three, but it gets him energized for the day while also settling his brain down. The bad days have come less often since he's started doing this, and he wouldn't trade that progress for anything.

But on Mondays, Bucky doesn't go to work out. Sometimes he lets himself sleep in a little, although never past eight. Other times he still gets up before sunrise, whether out of habit or because Steve is rattling around his kitchen, and lets himself slowly prepare for the day. It's still a routine in a way, despite being a break from his other mornings, and it gives him time to gather himself and mentally prepare for what he'll be doing next.

Today is a Monday, so Bucky follows his Monday routine. He has his slow breakfast, showers and gets dressed, and leaves his apartment by eight forty-five. And then he walks the seven blocks to his therapist's office.

Like always, Bucky is the only person in the waiting room when he arrives, and like always, Victoria opens her office door at nine a.m. sharp with a genuine smile and a bright "Morning. Want some coffee?"

"Just water, if that's alright," Bucky says as he follows her in, shutting the door carefully behind him. Even though there's no one else there, it would feel wrong to let it slam and disturb the calm quiet that always lays over Victoria's office.

"Of course." Victoria pulls one of her many novelty mugs from the cabinet behind her desk and fills it from the dispenser in the corner as Bucky eases himself onto the worn couch against the back wall. Walter, Victoria's perpetually-napping old tabby cat who comes with her to work every morning in a harness and perched contentedly on her shoulder, lifts his head with an annoyed _mrrah_ as Bucky's weight shifts him. Bucky scratches Walter's chin in apology, and he settles back down.

Victoria hands Bucky his mug of water, and then drops into the armchair across from him as she asks, "So, what's up this week?"

 

* * *

 

When Steve and Sam had first -- extremely carefully and over ice cream -- broached the subject of therapy with Bucky, he had adamantly refused. Bucky considered himself pretty good at adapting to twenty-first century trains of thought, so when Steve started his lecture about how ' _t's not the forties anymore, Buck, a lot of people go to therapy for a whole range of things_ ,' Bucky interrupted that it wasn't like he thought therapy was _bad_ , he just didn't _need_ it. They'd deprogrammed him in Wakanda. The trigger words didn't work anymore. He was _fine_. And if he sometimes had panic attacks so bad he couldn't move for hours on end, well, that happened to anyone who went through a war. It was normal. It didn't mean he needed therapy.

Sam had looked entirely unimpressed. "You know that's my job, right? Group therapy for people who've fought in wars, who have those same kinds of episodes you do. It is normal after what you've been through, I'll give you that, but the reason it's normal is because you and all those other people have been through _trauma_ , Barnes. You know what else is normal? Going to therapy after trauma."

Bucky pointed his cone of toffee swirl at Sam's face. "Don't use your VA-talk on me, Wilson."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You're really threatening me with ice cream. Really"

"Look," Steve intervened. "Just think about it, Buck. You know we're always here for you, and we're always happy to help. But you've been through a lot. And I know you don't tell us all of it because it _is_ a lot, so I just think it might help you to have someone who you _can_ tell all of it, if you want to."

"I'm not going to let one of Fury's ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. goons or whoever interrogate me on a weekly basis just so they can feel better that I'm not going to snap and murder the president. I'm _fine_."

Steve and Sam exchanged confused looks. "This isn't a S.H.I.E.L.D. thing, Bucky," Sam said carefully. "No one told us to tell you this."

"This is just us," Steve added.

Bucky sighed. "I know. I know that, I'm not accusing you of anything. But, this therapist, it would have to be a S.H.I.E.L.D. person, wouldn't it? No one else would sign up to be a shrink for an ex-assassin."

Steve shrugged. "Well, the person we were going to recommend isn't S.H.I.E.L.D. and has signed up to be a shrink for a current assassin, so yeah, someone might."

Bucky frowned. "Wait. What?"

"Just talk to Clint," Steve told him. "Also, your ice cream is melting."

So Bucky said "Fuck" and immediately started licking the melted ice cream off his metal hand while Sam laughed. And the next day, he talked to Clint.

"Oh, Victoria?" he had panted out while Bucky spotted his bench presses. "Yeah, she's great. Ten out of ten, highly recommend. If there was like, a Yelp for therapists, I would give her five stars and leave her rave reviews every single day. I'd fight anyone who leaves her a bad review. And then I'd get banned from therapist Yelp and have to make another dummy account to keep fighting the good fight. But I would, you know? She's just that good."

Bucky let most of Clint's babble flow in one ear and directly out the other, filtering out the parts he needed to hear. It had taken him a while to master the skill, but he'd had to, because without it Clint was just so _annoying_. For the longest time he hadn't been able to figure out how Natasha was best friends with him when she had so little patience for petty irritations in all other areas of her life. When he had finally caved and asked her, Nat had just shrugged. "Everyone needs some annoying in their life. Clint just happens to be my preferred brand. Also, he's funny."

Clint _is_ funny, Bucky will admit, _and_ he has a cute dog who he always brings with him to the gym, so Bucky really has no choice but to be his friend. What he won't admit is that even Clint's more irritating habits have started to become endearing through long-term exposure.

Because he  _is_ still annoying, and Bucky still tunes out at least sixty percent of what he says on any given day.

"And she's not a S.H.I.E.L.D. person? Or, you know, ex-S.H.I.E.L.D. person, or whatever?" he had asked.

"God, no. I've been seeing her for years, man, since way before we knew S.H.I.E.L.D. was secretly being run Nazis. I mean, I vetted her, made sure she was all clean, just like any S.H.I.E.L.D person would be. But you think I would see a therapist from my _job_? Where Fury could just override doctor-patient confidentiality whenever he's bored? I would rather _die_."

Bucky snorted. "Good to know. But why would she do it, then? Treat people like us, I mean."

"Dunno, dude. I think she has a reason, but I've never really asked, y'know? Seems really personal and I really don't want to cross any lines with her or make her uncomfortable. But mostly I think it's just because she's a really good person, and she wants to help, no matter who you are."

"Huh."

"I'll give you her number, if you want. Dunno if she's currently taking new patients, but if you tell her I referred you it should be okay."

"Thanks, Clint," and he meant that genuinely, "but I won't call. I don't need to see someone."

Clint set the barbell back on its supports and sat up, breathing heavily. "Okay, but like, can you take her number anyway? That way you have it in case you change your mind, _and_ Steve stops bothering me."

Bucky laughed and handed Clint his water bottle. "Alright, alright, fine. Thanks."

They traded positions, Clint spotting Bucky, and dropped the topic until halfway through Bucky's set when he blurted out, "Why do you see her? Victoria. If. If that's not too personal. Sorry, you don't have to answer that."

If Clint was thrown or offended by the question, he didn't show it. He just shrugged. "No worries, man. It's like a suitcase."

"A...what?"

"You know, a suitcase. Like, how they sometimes get shoved way too full of stuff and then you're like, _well fuck, gotta unpack this_ , but the zipper is stuck on all the shit that's inside so you can't get it open, and also you don't _really_ want to unpack it because that's a lot of work, so it just sits in the corner of you room for months and haunts you until your friend comes over and is like _dude, what the fuck_ and helps you unpack it. That ever happened to you?"

"Uh....huh." It hadn't. Bucky doesn't really travel that much, but when he does he only uses duffle bags or backpacks, and he always unpacks as soon as he gets home.

Clint either didn't notice Bucky's hesitation or just ignored it. "Yeah! See, that suitcase, that's what my brain is like. And that's why I go to therapy. She helps me get that suitcase open and unpack everything when there's too much, you know? 'Cause sometimes things are just too much to do on your own."

They'd kept the conversation to lighter subjects for the rest of their workout, and then Clint had typed Victoria's office number into Bucky's phone, and Bucky had forgotten about it by the time he got home. Until a week later when Matt had found him shaking on his couch and talked to him all night until his brain had finally quieted down and he could breathe again. He'd made Matt pancakes and they'd napped the day away on his couch, and when Matt finally left around five, wearing a pair of Bucky's sweatpants and carrying his Daredevil suit in a reusable shopping bag so he could go shower and change before meeting his coworkers for dinner, Bucky had ordered himself a pizza, pulled up the number Clint had given him, and left a message at Victoria's office to set up an introductory appointment.

Because sometimes things were just too much to do on his own.

 

* * *

 

That had been three months ago. Bucky had been seeing Victoria every week since, and it was...good. It _was_ good. But it was also infinitely harder than he had expected. He'd been forced to acknowledge that maybe this actually _was_ a case where he wasn't so good at adopting twenty-first century mindsets, because six weeks into their sessions Victoria had looked at him for a long minute before saying, "You know I'm not going to lock you up if you tell me what's actually on your mind, right?"

Logically, Bucky _had_ known that, but hearing it out loud released something in his chest he hadn't even known was there. That day, for the first time, he brought up HYDRA in their sessions.

Since then, Bucky's gotten more comfortable bringing things up on his own, but sometimes he still needs prompting. And that's one of the things he loves about Victoria, the way that she somehow always knows when to press and when to let him be. So far she's never gotten it wrong.

Today, he knows she knows he needs to be pressed when after about twenty minutes, she drains the rest of her coffee in one go and asks, "Alright, so what's _actually_ up this week?"

That's the other thing Bucky loves about Victoria. She doesn't baby him, doesn't ever hit him with a "Well, let's sit with that feeling for a minute" when she doesn't know what to say. She's dry and casual in all the right ways and goes directly for the heart of the issue, every single time.

"I've been worried about my friend," Bucky says, and then dives into it. He's told her about Matt before -- not all of it, because even though he knows she would never tell anyone and even though he never uses Matt's name, Matt doesn't know he has a therapist and Bucky would never tell anyone about his powers without his consent -- but enough that Victoria has a good idea of their relationship, and has probably guessed on her own that Matt is someone superhero-adjacent.

When he finishes explaining, Victoria's first question is, "Are you worried for his safety?"

Bucky considers for a moment before shaking his head. "Not really. I think I'd know if he was dead or missing." He knows the Avengers know who Matt is, somehow, and he also knows they keep tabs on obituaries and missing persons reports, so if something really bad had happened to him, Bucky's sure they'd tell him. "I'm just...generally worried, I guess?"

"Makes sense, and let's definitely dive more into that in a moment, but first I want to say something I think you need to hear but won't necessarily like, so you can have some time to think about it before we finish today, and we can go back to it at the end if you want."

"You're going to say to reach out first," Bucky sighs.

Victoria tips her empty mug in his direction. "Bingo."

"It doesn't really work like that between us."

"Yeah, you said. But what if it doesn't work like that only because you haven't tried to make it work like that before?"

Bucky shifts uncomfortably, and reaches over to pet Walter to give himself something to do with his hands. This is the hard part, the part where Victoria coaxes him to confront all the assumptions he's made out of anxiety and clung to to keep himself safe. His instinct is to deflect her question, avoid the topic altogether and move the conversation back to safer waters.

But he doesn't, because three months of therapy have taught him a lot, but the biggest thing they've taught him is that when it feels hard, that's when he's doing the work he needs to. So instead Bucky takes a minute to think about what Victoria said while he scratches Walter's ears, and then he says, "I have tried, a few times. I've gone over to his place on my own."

"That's good. What were those times like?"

"Normal, fine."

Victoria tilts her head at his tone. "You don't sound like they were fine."

"No, no, they really were. He always looked happy to see me. We were fine. It just... _I_ felt weird, every time. Like I was intruding?"

Victoria hums in thought, taps her nails on her mug. "I get that, I feel the same way the first few times I go over to someone's house. But just because it's uncomfortable doesn't mean you're doing something wrong, and I'd guess you definitely weren't if he was happy that you were there. It just takes time getting used to new things, especially when they're the opposite of an established dynamic."

Bucky considers that. What she's saying makes sense, although he still can't quite shake the feeling that it doesn't fully apply to him and Matt.

"Do you want to keep talking about this, or should we table it for later?" Victoria asks.

"Let's table it," Bucky says, and she nods agreeably.

They talk about other things for the rest of the session -- Bucky's general worry for Matt, his discomfort with missing him, the way his morning exercise routine was helping to stave off the bad days but how he was now more anxious for the next bad day -- until Victoria subtly checks the clock and tells him, "We've got about five minutes left. Any last things you want to hit this week?"

Bucky almost says no -- really _wants_ to say no -- but he catches himself again, because even if it's hard, he's here to do the work.  _Especially_ when it's hard. "About what we were talking about earlier, uh, with reaching out first to my friend." Victoria nods encouragingly. "Steve said I should text him, but I don't...really feel comfortable with that. Mostly because he really only ever texts me to let me know when he gets home, and we've never really texted each other besides that."

"If texting would make it harder for you to reach out to him, then I wouldn't do it," Victoria says. "It's already a tough thing, no need to make it tougher, you know?"

"But then what do I do?"

"You could call him. Or just stop by his place. You've gone there on your own before, so even if it's still not your favorite thing in the world, it's something you've done, so you know you can do it."

Bucky frowns. "He lives in Midtown, though. I'm rarely over there. I can't just pretend it's a casual thing, like I was in the area and just decided to drop by."

"You don't have to pretend it's a casual thing. He's your friend and you're worried, it's one hundred percent natural to go check him. You could even bring food, if you want."

"What, like a casserole? Not sure I remember my mom's recipes for those."

Victoria laughs, and Bucky joins her. "This isn't the forties, James, casseroles are out. Get him his favorite take out or something. Everyone loves food."

"Hmm." It's an idea, anyway, which is more than he had when he came in today. "I'll think about it."

"Do that."

And that's pretty much all he does for the next two days. Bucky goes back and forth on it, weighing the pros and cons over and over until he's no longer sure which is which. He paces his apartment. He rants to Steve. And after an hour of hyping himself up on Wednesday night, Bucky places an order for way too much food to Matt's favorite Thai place and calls a Lyft to Hell's Kitchen before he can change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternative chapter title: Bucky And His Friends Are All Ripped As Fuck And Also Go To Therapy
> 
> this was a SUPER fast update because i had most of this chapter written before i posted the first one yesterday and then finished it up before i went to bed. other updates won't be quite this fast, although i still hope to keep them pretty regular and not too spaced out. and i promise matt (and foggy!) will finally actually appear in the next chapter and we can get back to that sweet sweet mutual pining. thanks for reading, and as always i'd love to hear what you think! <3 i have a curiouscat [here](https://curiouscat.me/pizzadog) if u prefer anon or just want to chat about mattbucky!


	3. be known in its aching

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please be advised that this chapter contains a description of past gun violence. if you don't want to read that, when you hit "Okay, so, this is the wild part" skip down to "But he's okay?".

Bucky can't decide which part of this is weirder: being at Matt's place while the sun is still up or actually going in through the front door.

Either way, the discomfort that's been growing in his chest the entire way here definitely says something about the state of their friendship. Bucky has long ago stopped expecting any of his relationships to be completely normal, but then again, at least he doesn't feel out of place going to his other friends' apartments during regular human hours. He promises himself that if today goes well, he'll make an effort to see Matt more outside of their nightly visits.

It's not like seeing him more would be any kind of burden.

Luckily, Matt's building is old enough that there's no buzzer, so Bucky can just walk right in without loitering awkwardly on the sidewalk. He makes it halfway up the first flight of stairs before he realizes he has no idea what Matt's apartment number is.

' _Goddammit._ ' He _really_ needs to have more normal hangouts with Matt.

He backtracks out of the building and circles around to the side ally. Bucky takes a moment to fully bask in the ridiculousness of the fact that he's more familiar with Matt's fire escape than with his front door as he counts the floors up to it and uses the glowing billboard to judge its position. And then he goes back in the front and climbs the stairs up to the third floor. At worst, Bucky figures, he'll guess the apartment wrong and end up accidentally disturbing a neighbor who could hopefully point him to the right one.

Bucky looks down to adjust his grip on the bag of Thai food as he mounts the third floor landing, walks a few steps out into the hallway, and then slams directly into a person.

"Oof!"

Bucky doesn't stumble, but he does take a steadying step back and reflexively reaches out to steady the other person. It's a man probably around his and Matt's age dressed in a well-fitting suit, his long blonde hair combed neatly out of his face. His expression goes from surprised to suppressed annoyance as he regains his footing, and then back to surprised as he looks up at Bucky's face. There's recognition creeping in around the edges of his eyes, and Bucky swallows uncomfortably.

It's not that he's not used to people recognizing him in New York. It's just that he's never sure how they're going to react to seeing the Winter Soldier in their day to day lives. The Avengers had done all sorts of presscons and political lobbying to get the U.N. off his ass, but that didn't mean everyday people had to accept him. It was rare that anyone would get aggressive with him, but really, they didn't have to. The fear and disgust on their faces -- the way people would look at him and then immediately look away -- spoke volumes.

"Sorry," Bucky says before the silence between them can stretch into something awkward, dropping his hand from the other man's arm. "I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?" 

"Wha?" The question seems to snap the other man out of a daze and he flushes lightly, but whether it's out of embarrassment or discomfort, Bucky can't tell. "No. Wait--wait, I mean, yes! Yes. I'm fine. Perfect. Absolutely peachy. It's no problem, is what I was trying to say. Don't sweat it, man, I wasn't looking either. It's good. It's all...and I'm rambling, aren't I?" 

Bucky nods. The man laughs in embarrassment.

"Sorry, sorry. I do that. It's just--" he waves a hand vaguely around "--it's not everyday you run into an Avenger outside your best friend's apartment, you know?"

Bucky ducks his head slightly at the man's tone of voice. It's bright, slightly awed, and genuinely friendly -- the exact opposite of what he usually gets. And it's...nice. "I'm not really an Avenger."

"Dude, are you kidding me? You're Captain America's best friend. You were a _Howling Commando_." The man puts extra emphasis there, as if that's the highest compliment there is. "You guys were like, basically the proto-Avengers. If you're not an Avenger then _clearly_ the Avengers have no idea what they're doing."

Bucky smirks. "I appreciate it, but between you and me, they never have any idea what they're doing."

The man laughs, loud and full-bellied, and Bucky is surprised to find himself joining in. He's even more surprised by how relaxed he feels, but there's just something about this guy that makes Bucky feel at ease. He shifts the bag of food to one arm and holds his hand out. "Bucky Barnes."

The man shakes his hand firmly. "Foggy Nelson. It's great to finally meet you."

Bucky blinks. Foggy. He's heard that name before. A lot, actually. From Matt. Matt, whose apartment they are currently standing in front of. It clicks. "Are you...do you know Matt Murdock, by any chance?"

Nelson lights up like a Christmas tree. "Yes! Yeah, I do. He's my best friend and law partner."

Bucky feels an unexpected wave of relief whose source he can't fully identify. It's a little bit how Nelson had used present tense -- which means Matt definitely isn't dead -- and a little bit how Nelson's demeanor hasn't changed even for a moment -- which means Matt isn't on the brink of death -- and a little bit how Nelson doesn't ask how Bucky knows Matt -- which means Matt's talked about him to his best friend. It's a lot to unpack all at once, so Bucky doesn't even try, just lets the feeling roll over him and leave him feeling warmer than he has in a week.

"Then it's great to finally meet _you_ ," Bucky says honestly. "Matt's told me a lot about you."

Nelson laughs and scratches the back of his head, flustered. "It better've been all good, or I'm gonna kick his ass."

"It definitely was," Bucky reassures him.

That only seems to fluster Nelson more, because he blushes and quickly changes the topic. "You're here to see Matt, yeah?"

"Yeah." Bucky lifts the bag of food a little higher. "Haven't heard from him in a while, so...figured I'd come bearing gifts."

"Awesome, Matt'll love to see you, I think he's getting sick of me and Karen and--" Nelson cuts himself off, staring at Bucky as he processes exactly what he said. His brow furrows. "Wait. Hold on. When was the last time you heard from Matt?"

Bucky blinks, taken aback by the sudden intensity in his voice. "Uh. Almost two weeks ago."

A look of mingled disbelief and irritation sweeps over Nelson's face. "He didn't tell you?" he demands.

"Tell me what?" Bucky asks suspiciously. The feeling of relief is gone, replaced by the same sense of creeping dread that's been building in him for the past week and five days.

Nelson doesn't hear him, too caught up in his own ranting. "Oh my _god_ , I can't believe him. I _told_ him to tell you, he was all ' _oh no I can't bother him_ ' but I told him you'd worry _more_ if he just disappeared" -- his hands are flying through the air as he speaks, punctuating every other word -- "and then he finally agreed to tell you and you know what? I believed his bitch ass, because I am apparently nothing in this world except Matthew Michael Murdock's clown. I mean, for the love of--"

Bucky grabs one of Nelson's flailing hands, gently but firmly, and releases it once he's sure he has his attention. "Nel--Foggy. What didn't Matt tell me?" 

Nelson sighs, deep and loud, like he's releasing the rest of his frustration into air. When he speaks again, it's less frantic, although there's an edge of nervousness to his voice now. "Okay--just--first, before I tell you, I want you to know that he's okay, so promise not to freak out."

"I promise," Bucky says, although the dread in his stomach amps up to eleven at those words.

Nelson takes a deep breath, and then says, "Matt got shot."

Bucky's blood runs cold.

He's not freaking out, he tells himself. He's not, because he promised Nelson he wouldn't, but also because he always knew this was a possibility. Bucky's not an idiot. He knows exactly what kinds of things Matt does at night -- hell, he's even helped him sometimes -- so he knows exactly what the risks are. He knows it's more likely than not that someday Matt will go out his window and he won't come back. He knows exactly how high the chances are that someday he's going to open the newspaper and Matt's obituary is going to be sitting there waiting for him. He knows. He knows. 

But knowing doesn't stop his stomach from dropping to his shoes when he hears those words. Because this isn't the war, where every single one of Bucky's friends knew every single day could be their last but chose to live like it wouldn't be, and this isn't Steve going out at Captain America, chock-full of super-serum and a stubbornness that Bucky knows will keep him alive against all odds. It's just Matt. Matt, who's fighting his own war, who's got nothing in him except the Devil and a heart that deep down is too soft for the hand it's been dealt. Matt, with his puppy-dog eyes and his perpetual five o'clock shadow and his duck-patterned boxers. Matt, who is fine, but who got shot and didn't tell Bucky because he didn't want to bother him.

Bucky thinks, suddenly, that it's good he's not hearing this from Matt first, because he's not sure whether he would yell at him or kiss him. Or both.

But it's Nelson in front of him right now, not Matt, so Bucky wrangles his panic into submission before Nelson can even notice. "Well," he says, "fuck."

Nelson nods solemnly. "Yeah. Pretty much."

"What happened?"

"Okay, so, this is the wild part. You know about Matt's..." Nelson glances quickly around the landing "... _thing_ , right? And you'd guess that'd be it? But that's not how it happened."

The gears in Bucky's brain grind to a halt. "Wait. What?"

"I know," Nelson says. "Dude, trust me, I know. But yeah, Matt just went to the courthouse with one of our clients to pick up some paperwork, because she's also blind and the people who work there can be complete _assholes_ about getting braille forms, sometimes they even say they don't have them even though they _do_ and are legally required to give them to you, and _really_ if they keep pulling this bullshit someday someone could work up a case to sue them for discrimination--" Nelson cuts himself off again, blushing. "Sorry, off topic."

"It's okay," Bucky reassures him.

Nelson awkwardly clears his throat, then continues. "So, Matt went with her because they know him there and know he'll chew them out if they try to pull anything.  But when they were walking out I guess someone pulled a gun."

Bucky frowns. "Aren't there metal detectors there because of this kind of thing? Bag searches?"

Nelson nods. "There are, which is why this guy waited just outside the building. He was going after someone else, some other group group just getting out of a trial.  They were coming out of the building at the same time. It was just, like, the absolute worst case of wrong-place-wrong-time for Matt." 

"Wait, I read about that," Bucky remembers suddenly. The details are hazy, but he knows that the article hadn't mentioned the names of the people caught in the crossfire. He remembers a reference to a 'New York lawyer' who had gotten hit, and feels a brief flash of rage at whoever had left Matt's name out of the article. They could have saved him a lot of worrying.

"Yeah, I figured you might've. Not one got killed, thank god, but was all over the news for a few days. But I guess Matt heard the click or people screaming or something and got our client to the ground first, but just didn't get himself out of the way in time." 

' _Yeah,'_ Bucky thinks. ' _That definitely sounds like Matt._ '

"How bad was it?" he asks.

"Not great," Nelson grimaces. "One bullet to the shoulder and one to the stomach. But it could've been a lot worse -- I swear to god Matt's the luckiest bastard on earth. Nothing vital got hit."

Bucky whistles low, wincing. He's taken more than a few bullets to those same places, so he knows exactly how much pain Matt must be in. But Nelson is right -- Matt _is_ the luckiest bastard on earth. 

"But he's okay?" he asks. "I know you said he is, but. You know. Everything's going okay with his recovery?"

Nelson rolls his eyes. "Oh, physically he's fine, except that he can't go out on his, ah, _nightly walks_  right now. So, you know, emotionally, he's acting like he's dying." 

The door to the apartment bangs open, and Bucky just barely manages to jump out of the way before it hits him. A very disgruntled Matt Murdock stands in the doorway, glowering at both of them. "Foggy."

Nelson is unfazed. "Might as well be dead, actually"

" _Foggy._ "

"Sometimes I can still hear his voice."

" _Franklin Nelson_ ," Matt growls. "Stop gossiping about me on my doorstep."

Nelson finally turns to Matt, gasping dramatically like he just noticed his presence. "Matt! You're alive! It's a miracle! Or..." He pauses to scrutinize Matt's scowl. "Are you a vengeful spirit taking the form of my dearly departed best friend?"

Matt crosses his arms and kicks half-heartedly in Nelson's direction instead of replying. Bucky knows firsthand how threatening Matt can be, but right now, he just looks like a very annoyed kitten, and it's adorable. He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"Hey!" Nelson scolds as he side-steps Matt's kick. "No ninja-ing! You're wounded!"

"Go _home_. I hate you," Matt tells him, sending another kick his way before turning to Bucky. "Hi, Bucky."

Before Bucky has a chance to reply, Nelson yells "Stop kicking!" and catches Matt in what looks like a cross between a wrestling hold and a hug.

Matt looks imploringly at Bucky, who at this point has given up trying to stop himself and is outright laughing. "I _hate_ him."

"Uh-huh." Nelson plants a loud kiss on Matt's cheek over his squawk of discontent, and then addresses Bucky. "He doesn't hate me, he's just being a huge jerk to everyone right now because he's mad that he's on bedrest and can't go do backflips to avoid social situations. Proceed with caution."

"I am _not_ being a jerk," Matt protests.

"You kind of are, buddy," Nelson tells him fondly. "Karen and I'll stop by tomorrow on the way to work, and you're not allowed to complain about it because we're bringing those fancy apple donuts you like. For now," Nelson looks back at Bucky as he gently shoves Matt in his direction, "he's all yours, soldier. Godspeed." And then he hustles down the stairs before Matt can try to kick him again.

There's a moment of awkward silence in the wake of Nelson's exit, where Matt toys with the worn edge of his sweatshirt sleeve and Bucky shifts the bag of Thai food in his arms. He hadn't realize just how big and warm Nelson's presence was until he was gone. Now Bucky feels cold and out of place, all his anxiety about coming to see Matt during normal human hours rushing back.

"He reminds me of Steve," Bucky says, partially because he can't take the silence anymore, but mostly because it's true. They're not exactly the same -- Nelson is silly where Steve is serious, gentle where Steve is intense -- but they both give off that same kind of energy that lights up the room and makes you feel welcome, and Bucky is strangely relieved that Matt has someone like that in his life.

Matt snorts. "Don't let him hear you say that. He'll never shut up about it." Despite the sharpness of his words, his voice is gentle and fond now that Foggy is out of earshot.

Bucky hums in agreement. There's another beat of silence, and then Matt clears his throat and looks somewhere over Bucky's left shoulder, avoiding the eye contact that he can't make. "Sorry it's been a while," he says.

"Don't be. You got shot. That's more than enough of a reason to take a break from climbing through my window."

Matt frowns. "I didn't want you to worry. I know Foggy already told you that, but...still.  That's why I didn't tell you. Guess that didn't work though."

 Bucky shrugs, keeps his voice light. "Steve's a hundred year old super-soldier who I fought a war with, and I still sometimes worry when he picks fights with assholes on the street. Pretty sure it's just physically impossible to stop me from worrying."

A minuscule amount of tension seems to leave Matt's shoulder -- though he still looks wound up -- and the corners of his mouth lift into a small smile. "Alright. Is that Thai food?"

The change of topic is clunky at best, but Bucky doesn't comment on it. He's never seen Matt like this before -- he's seen him stressed and exhausted, sure, but he's never been stretched quite this thin before. Bucky gets the strange feeling that if he touched Matt right now and pressed too hard his hand would go right through. So he doesn't press, even verbally, and instead he says, "Yeah. It's from that place we ordered from a couple weeks ago, after that mugger got you in the face with a broken beer bottle."

Matt chuckles, and, _oh_ , Bucky hadn't realized how much he missed that sound until now. "I remember." His face is slowly softening and opening despite the traces of stress lingering around the edges and it's making Bucky's heart do weird things. "You didn't have to bring me food."

"I mean, I'm still catching up, but I'm pretty sure bringing someone food when they're injured isn't a thing that's changed since the forties, yeah?"

Matt's voice is slightly teasing, if still slightly off beat. "Yeah. But you didn't know I was injured."

Bucky shrugs a little helplessly. Matt's got him there, in the exact way he had been hoping he wouldn't. _'Just be honest,'_ Steve had said, but that was so much easier said than done when he doesn't know how Matt will react. But he tries anyway. "Well. I missed you."

Matt smiles, wide and genuine, and relief immediately floods Bucky's system. "I missed you too." If Matt can hear the way Bucky's heart flips and jumps and pounds at that, he graciously doesn't comment on it, and continues, "C'mon, come inside, I don't keep my plates out here." 

Bucky wanders into the apartment behind Matt, toeing his shoes off by the entrance. It's less cavernous in the light of day, and Bucky can see that what he's always taken to be signs that the place is barely lived in is just cleanliness. It makes sense -- Matt's powers may give him his world on fire, but he's still blind. Everything has a place, and Bucky has no doubt Matt knows exactly where everything is.

Like his plates, which apparently are on the top shelf of his kitchen cabinets, and which Matt is currently attempting to reach with one hand while holding his side with the other.

"Oh what the fuck, absolutely not." Bucky drops the bag of food on the counter and hurries over to Matt's side. "Stop, I got it, you're going to pop a stitch."

"I'm _fine_ ," Matt says, although the grimace on his face says otherwise.

 "Yes," Bucky agrees, "and you can go be fine on the couch." Matt grumbles, but allows Bucky to gently herd him into the living room and settle him down on the couch. He only shoos him away when he starts trying to arrange the pillows around Matt, claiming, "I can do it myself, _Grandpa_."

"You have absolutely no respect for your elders," Bucky tells him as he steps back to give Matt space, ignoring the way he rolls his eyes. He takes another minute to look around Matt's living room again. Maybe it's just the way the billboard outside is painting everything in softly shifting pink and purple light, but it really does feel more homey in the daytime. 

Food momentarily forgotten, Bucky wanders over towards the back wall, eyes moving slowly over Matt's shelves, crammed with small trinkets -- a couple weird little lion statues that Bucky assumes must be a Columbia thing, some tactile-looking rocks, what looks like a small collection of fidget toys-- and binders with braille labels until they land on a pair of large black speakers. ' _Huh.'_ Matt's place is almost always quiet when Bucky slips through his window, even when he's still awake, so Bucky's never really pictured him to be a music type of guy. But the speakers look well cared for, if a bit old -- there's no dust on them, and the aux cord placed carefully in front shows no sign of damage.

Bucky lays a hand on top of them, thinking. He hears Matt shifting on the couch behind him and turns to catch him in his peripheral, but keeps most of his attention on the speakers. It dawns on him that Matt can still hear everything going on outside his apartment, all the horrors of the city that drive him out every night to do his best to make it a little bit better.  Except now he can't do anything _but_ listen. Bucky can't imagine what that's like, but it can't be good.

He doesn't know what kind of music Matt likes, but now seems like as good a time as any to find out. Bucky has enough genres of playlists that he's sure they'll find something they both like.

His hand drifts down to the aux cord.

Matt jerks upright, snapping around to face Bucky with enough force that Bucky is worried he actually _did_ pop a stitch. Bucky whips around to face him fully, brow furrowed. "Jesus Christ, Murdock. What the hell?"

Matt ignores him, instead choosing to grit out a "What are you doing." It's a question but not -- he wants an answer, but from the sound of his voice, he already knows he's not going to like it.

Bucky blinks at the unexpected aggression. All the stress that looked like it had left Matt out in the hall has come rushing back in the space of an instant, except multiplied by ten. Bucky can see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the way he's planted his hands like he's about to launch himself off the couch. He looks like he's itching for a fight, and Bucky has no idea why, so he just says, "You've got a pretty good sound system here. You ever use it?"

"No. I don't." The words are clipped. "I need to hear what's happening. Music is a distraction."

Bucky frowns. So this is what Nelson was talking about earlier. "Well, you don't need to hear anything tonight. A little distraction couldn't hurt."

That was clearly the wrong thing to say, because the expression on Matt's face goes from mild anger to outright fury, and he starts to struggle to his feet again. "Don't."

"Matt, sit _down_." Bucky rushes over to him, tries to gently press his shoulders back into the couch, but Matt slaps his hands away with a growled " _Don't touch me_."

That stings. Matt has become increasingly touchy-feely as they've gone from each other's emergency midnight nurses to actual friends -- leaning on Bucky when they're settled on the couch, brushing his hand when passing something over, even tucking his hair behind his ears -- but even before they really knew each other, Matt had no issue with Bucky touching him. Besides Steve, Matt had been the only person who knew who he was, what his hands had done, and never once shied away from them. Until now.

' _It's not about you,_ ' Bucky tells himself furiously, choking off the sudden wave of pain and nausea somewhere between his heart and his throat. ' _He's just upset. Don't make it about you._ '

He raises his hands in surrender and takes a step back. Matt stands there and grits his teeth, squaring his shoulders like he's getting ready to brawl. He reminds Bucky again of a street cat -- suspicious and angry and ready to tear the throat out of anyone who tries to take what little he has for himself.

Matt points an accusing finger at Bucky. "You're doing what Foggy tried to do."

' _Diffuse the situation_ ,' says Victoria's voice in his head, so Bucky aims for joking. "If you're saying I'm in cahoots with Nelson, you're gonna have to explain how, because you and I both know today was the first time I met the guy." He lands solidly in awkward. _'Great job, Barnes.'_

"I'm not saying you're _in cahoots_." The derision in Matt's voice is so thick it doesn't so much drip as it oozes, slowly polluting the air between them. "I'm saying you're both doing the same goddamn thing, and I've been putting up with Foggy doing it for a week and I'm sick of it."

Okay, so no more joking. Bucky knows the question will probably just make Matt angrier, because he can't seem to say anything right, but he has to make sure they're at least on the same page, so he asks anyway, "The distraction thing?" 

" _Yes_ ," Matt hisses. "The distraction thing. The trying-to-drown-out-my-senses thing. The oh-poor-stupid-guilty-Catholic-Matt-can't-set-his-own-limits _thing_."

"Whoa there." Bucky frowns. "I don't think you're stupid, Matt, and I'm dead certain Nelson doesn't either."

"But you think I can't set my own limits?" Matt's voice is sharp and accusing, and Bucky realizes suddenly that he hates this. He hates the way Matt is zeroing in on his words, picking apart each statement, discarding what he knows Bucky means and putting it back together to form his own interpretation. He knows this is what makes Matt such a good lawyer, but it doesn't stop it from sucking when Matt turns it on him. 

His brain's Victoria voice is still coaching him. ' _Take a deep breath. Don't get overwhelmed. Explain your side calmly._ ' Easy. They've talked about conflict resolution plenty of times. Bucky takes a deep breath. "That's unfair. You know that if I thought you didn't know your own limits I wouldn't trust you to drag yourself to me every time you need to be stitched up. I'd be out there dragging you in myself."

Matt shakes his head dismissively. "That's different."

"How is it--"

"Because that was _before_ I got shot, and now you and everyone else is thinking, _oh no, poor Matt, he got in over his head, he doesn't know what's good for him anymore, but I do_. That's the thing, is, you don't. You don't know what's good for me. Not you, not Foggy, not Karen. You _don't_." 

Matt's voice rises shakily as he speaks until the last word comes out as a shout. He's trembling with anger now, and Bucky doesn't know what to do. He scrambles for more leftover instructions from Victoria, but he can't find any, and it hits him like a punch to the chest that he's never had anyone he cares about this much be this angry at him before. He doesn't know how to make it better. It hurts, what Matt's accusing him of, and it hurts that Matt is hurting, and it hurts that Bucky trying to help had just made Matt hurt worse. 

Everything just hurts.

Bucky takes another step backwards and says, "Matt. C'mon."

Matt takes a deep, rattling breath, wincing as it pulls on his wounds, before demanding, "Am I wrong?"

Bucky knows what Matt wants to hear, finally. He wants Bucky to tell him that he's right, validate his anger, let him rage until he burns himself out. But he can't give that to him, because it wouldn't do anything to help the situation, and because it's not true.

"Yeah. You're wrong," Bucky says, and he sees Matt's hackles rise but barges on before he can interrupt. "This didn't happen when you were out as Daredevil, so no, I don't think you got in over your head. I don't think you don't know what's good for you. What I _think_ is that you got fucking shot, Matt, and you're sitting here torturing yourself listening to all the people you can't help right now, and yeah, okay, fine, maybe I don't know what's good for you, but I really don't think it's this."

"I'm not _torturing_ myself," Matt spits.

Bucky tries to keep his voice level, he really does, but he can't stop it from rising to meet Matt's. "Then what do you call this? You're freaking out because I tried to turn on some music."

"You tried to stop me from hearing what's happening in the city."

"Yes!" Bucky throws his hands up in exasperation. "Yeah, I did! Because you don't need to hear it right now!"

Matt points at him again, although this time with such force that Bucky is sure he would have hit him instead if he had been in range. "There it is. This is exactly what I'm talking about. You think you know better than me."

"How am I wrong here? You're recovering from being _shot_. You physically cannot go out there to stop the things you're hearing, and I know that's killing you, but listening to them anyway isn't going to help anything."

"You don't know that."

Bucky wants to rip his hair out. "I'm pretty sure you can't stop a robbery with just your ears, Matt, so yeah, I think I do know that."

"Don't," Matt spits. "Don't get--don't condescend to me. I'm not a kid."

"Jesus Christ, I _know_ that, I'm not trying to treat you like a kid. I'm trying to _help_."

"Oh?" Matt's pitch goes high with false curiosity. "Really? You're trying to help? Wow, my bad! That makes it all better!"

He doesn't know if Matt can tell when he rolls his eyes, but the vindictive part of Bucky hopes he can. "Okay, seriously, Matt? Come _on._ "

"Yeah, _seriously_ , because you're so caught up in trying to help me that you can't get your head out of your ass long enough to realize that _I'm_ trying to help way more people."

Bucky's shoulders have been slowly tensing up throughout the night, and now they're starting to ache, like he and Matt have been physically chasing each other in circles instead of just verbally. "Oh my God, we literally _just_ went over this. You can't help people right now."

"Not if you put music on, I won't be able to."

"The music has absolutely nothing to do with you being able to help right now."

"It has nothing--? It has everything to do with it. If I can't hear, I can't help, and then people get _hurt, James_."

That's it. ' _James_.' The use of his first name is what finally makes Bucky completely snap. He steps forward this time, into Matt's space, and when he speaks it isn't loud or frantic or frustrated. It's low and cold and forged to hurt. "Yeah, they do. But how many more people are going to get hurt if you force yourself to go out there with two bullet holes already in you and get yourself killed, _Matthew_?"

Matt opens his mouth to snarl back, but nothing comes out. His shoulders droop. Bucky watches in almost-fascination as Matt deflates in front of him, all the fight fleeing his body in the space of a moment. His face crumples and he takes a long, shuddering breath and he looks so much smaller and sadder than Bucky has ever seen, and, oh, _this_ is what he'd been hiding behind all that anger. It breaks Bucky's heart, just a little, and suddenly he can't find his anger anymore either.

"Okay," Matt says softly. "Okay." Then again, like he's stuck in a loop, "Okay."

"Okay," Bucky answers, just as softly. "It's okay."

Matt shakes his head. "It's not. But. Okay."

Scratch that. Seeing Matt like this breaks Bucky's heart a _lot_. He wants to take that last step to him and wrap him in his arms, but part of him is afraid that Matt would shatter completely under his touch, so he stays rooted to the spot, and says, "You're allowed to be selfish for one night, Matty."

The nickname slides from his lips easily -- so easily that it takes him a minute to realize he even said it. Bucky tenses, because he's never called Matt that before, and he doesn't even know how Matt would react normally, let alone _this_ Matt, this half feral, half broken man. He doesn't know what he expects. Maybe for Matt to get angry again. Maybe to be told to never call him that again. But he definitely doesn't expect the mix of longing and sadness that takes over Matt's expression, or the way that look wrenches at his heart and makes his stomach drop.

"I think," Matt says in a voice just above a whisper, "that I've been selfish enough already."

Matt slowly sinks back down onto the couch. He doesn't bury his face in his hands, doesn't flop back onto the cushions. He just sits there, perched on the edge of the seat, slowly collapsing in on himself.

Bucky hovers above him, unsure of what to do, until Matt looks up at him and says, "I'm sorry."

There's enough room for Bucky to sit next to Matt on the couch, but he doesn't want to crowd or startle him. But he doesn't feel any better about continuing to tower over him, either, so he settles for taking a step closer and kneeling down in front of Matt, sitting back on his ankles. After a moment of hesitation, he rests his right hand on Matt's knee.

"It's okay," he says.

Matt gives him a _look_ , and Bucky just barely stops himself from laughing in relief, because he knows that look, this is a Matt he knows. This is his Matt. "Seriously, Bucky. I was way out of line."

"Maybe a little," Bucky concedes, because they both know it's true. "But I forgive you."

Matt lets out a self-deprecating laugh that's more a self-deprecating puff of air. "Just like that, huh."

"Yeah. Just like that, Matty."

The nickname is a little more intentional this time, and Matt's face is a little more controlled, but he can't completely stop that same longing from crossing it, and Bucky can't completely stop that same ache in his chest when he sees it. Matt shifts a little and bites his lip, looks down at his lap. And then he carefully rests one hand on top of Bucky's on his knee and holds out his other one, waiting. Bucky looks at it for a long moment, long enough that Matt starts to let it drop, before reaching out and giving Matt his metal hand.

Matt breathes out shakily, then tangles their fingers together before Bucky can misinterpret that breath and pull his hand back, and angles his face back towards Bucky's. "I'm not afraid of you touching me," he tells him, voice firm, before blushing and stumbling over the rest of his words. "I just--I want--I...I need you to know that."

Bucky blinks rapidly, trying to smother the sudden stinging in his eyes. Gently, carefully, he squeezes Matt's fingers with his metal ones. "I know."

"I know," Matt echoes. "I just needed to tell you."

Bucky's not sure he trusts himself to tell Matt what it means to hear that out loud. Not sure he even has the words to. He settles on a quiet "Thank you," and knows it's enough when Matt smiles and squeezes his hands back.

They sit there in silence for a moment. Half of Bucky wants to just stay like this, letting their breathing sync, but he knows he has to bring it up again.

"You can tell me to fuck off if you want to," he starts, and the corner of Matt's mouth twitches. "I would totally accept that, and I promise I'm not trying to start another fight, but--"

"But you still want to put music on," Matt finishes. His tone is almost too neutral, and Bucky feels his shoulders tighten again.

"Yeah." Bucky watches Matt's face carefully. "Is that okay?"

Matt sighs. He seems exasperated beyond belief, but he's not getting angry again, so Bucky will take it. "I just don't think it will help." 

"As in you'll still be able to hear what's going on, or as in it won't make you feel better if you can't hear?"

"Both, kind of. I know I'll still be able to hear things going on nearby if I focus and listen closely, but it won't be as loud. So it's mostly the second." 

Bucky hums, considering. "Will it make you feel worse?" 

"I..." Matt trails off, frowning. It looks like he's genuinely thinking hard about the question. "I don't know. Maybe."

"What's your gut telling you?"

"That it's already bad enough that I'm useless right now, so I don't deserve to just ignore all the people who are suffering because of me."

Bucky sucks in a tight breath through his teeth. It's like hearing his own anxieties be passed through a filter of Irish Catholic guilt and then played back for him, and it's terrible. 

Because the thing is, Bucky knows he wants a lot of things regarding the man in front of him that he can't control. He wants him to be happy. He wants him to feel safe enough with Bucky to keep coming to him when he needs to help. He wants to make him laugh. To kiss him senseless, and have Matt want to kiss him back.

But he's never, ever wanted him to feel like this.

"First of all," Bucky says, "you're not useless, Matt. You're injured. And these people you're hearing aren't suffering because of you."

Matt makes an unconvinced noise, but doesn't otherwise argue. They both know they could chase this topic around and around for hours, but neither of them are looking for another fight.

"Second, though, can we just give it a try? We can turn it off if it makes it worse, or if you just don't like it, and I know you think it won't help but. But I really think it might. My..." Bucky hesitates. He's never told Matt about Victoria. It had taken him almost a month to tell Steve, even though he had been the one to recommend Bucky see someone in the first place. He feels that familiar tingle of anxiety in the back of his head, like bees buzzing under his skull, and tries to remind himself that this isn't the forties. It's the twenty-first century and no one is going to think he should be locked up because he sees a therapist. ' _E_ _specially not Matt,_ ' he tells himself, but it doesn't stop the anxious flutter of his heart.

Matt hears, because he always does, and tilts his head, brow furrowing in concern. "Bucky?" 

Bucky pulls his legs out from under himself and shifts into a cross-legged position to stall, careful not to pull his hands from Matt. He licks his lips, chews the bottom one for a moment. ' _Vulnerability isn't weakness._ ' The voice is halfway between Victoria's and his own this time, and he's not sure whether or not that makes it any easier to believe, but he knows it doesn't make it any less true.

He's asking Matt to be vulnerable with him. The least he can do is be vulnerable in return.

So he says, "My, uh. My therapist. Victoria." Matt goes still, and Bucky doesn't want to stop to think what that might mean, so he doesn't. His words come faster, pouring out of him before he or Matt could try to stop them. "She's talked to me a lot about distracting myself when things are bad. For me, that's...well, you know, you've seen what I get like. It's always flashbacks. To HYDRA. About what they did to me. About...what I did."

"What they made you do," Matt interrupts quietly.

Bucky shrugs. "They made me, but I still did it."

Matt doesn't respond to that, just squeezes his hands tightly and doesn't let go. Bucky takes a moment to just feel him before pressing on.

"When she first brought up trying to distract myself when that happens, I didn't want to. Especially for the flashbacks. Just the idea of it made me feel real guilty. Like, I _did_ all those things, and people are dead because of me, and it's not fair that I should just get to ignore it. I felt..." The words stick in his throat, and he has to swallow a few times to dislodge them. God, Bucky hates talking about his feelings. He does it for Victoria because he knows he has to if he wants to get better. He does it for Steve because that's his best friend and he loves him and he knows it helps, even if it doesn't always feel like it. He's not sure he's quite ready to analyze why he's doing it for Matt.

So instead he swallows, breathes, and tries again. "I felt like that was my punishment and I should just deal with it. I can't undo the things I did, but I could at least, like, bear witness to them or something. Distracting myself would be unfair." 

Matt's face has been slowly darkening as Bucky speaks, so he's not surprised when he finally blurts out "That's stupid" before freezing and looking absolutely aghast. Bucky knows he shouldn't, but he really can't stop himself from laughing as Matt stumbles through an apology. "Wait, no, I'm so sorry, that was so rude, you're not stupid--"

 "Matt," Bucky interrupts through his laughter. "Matt, don't worry about it, you're _fine_. That's what Victoria said too."

The look of skepticism that immediately takes over Matt's face is almost enough to send Bucky into another fit of laughter, but he just barely manages reign himself in. "Your therapist," Matt says slowly, as if he's still processing, "told you you're stupid?"

"I mean, in a more professional psych way, but yeah, basically. She said there are actual productive things we can do to confront what happened. Ways to deal with the guilt and things I can do to make amends, if I want to, that could actually help people. But she said that sitting there retraumatizing myself isn't going to help anyone." Bucky rubs his right thumb back and forth across Matt's knuckles. He's not entirely sure which of them he's trying to soothe. "She asked me what I'd do if one of my friends was forcing themself to sit through their bad days because they felt they deserved it. I said I would try to convince them that they don't, and I couldn't answer when she asked why different rules apply to them and not me."

Matt's gone still again, his face unreadable. He takes a breath like he's going to say something, then stops, his lips staying slightly parted as he thinks. Bucky chews his bottom lip nervously as he waits for him to gather his thoughts.

When Matt finally speaks, Bucky expects his voice to be as carefully controlled as his face is, but it's not. It's soft and nervous and so, so tender as he whispers, "Bucky."

Bucky inhales sharply. His stomach does something very complicated. No one has ever said his name like that before.

"Bucky," Matt says again, and that's when Bucky notices his hands are trembling. "I...I'm going to sound so stupid, but. Thank you. It means a lot to me that you'd trust me with that. I _know_ that sounds dumb, but it really does. And I promise I'm trying to trust you right back. But I don't...I just don't think it's the same for me. I'm...I'm not..."

"A deeply traumatized ex-brainwashed assassin?" Bucky jokes gently. It gets Matt to crack the smallest fraction of a smile for the smallest fraction of a second, so he'll count that as a win.

"Pretty much," Matt says. "It's just not the same."

"I think you're thinkin' about this the wrong way, bud. That's too literal."

Matt shakes his head. "I don't get it."

"You're still forcing yourself to listen to stuff you can't do anything to change right now. There are things you'll be able to do to help when you're in a better place, but you can't right now, so you're just hurting yourself, and that's gonna hurt you later when you _can_ help. It's okay to shut it all out for a little while to take care of yourself." 

It's a good thing Matt wears that stupid Devil mask half the time, Bucky thinks, because he can't keep his features under control for long. His neutral facade has been slowly crumbling as Bucky speaks, and the sadness that's starting to leak through is making Bucky's heart ache again.

"You don't have to bear witness to every single bad thing that happens," Bucky tells him.

Matt looks down for a long moment, hiding his face. There's no nervousness this time as Bucky waits. He just rubs his thumb over his knuckles until Matt takes a deep breath and looks back up at him.

"I can't bear witness to anything, Bucky," Matt says. "I'm blind." 

There's a beat of silence. And then--

"Oh my fucking _god_ ," Bucky chokes out through his laughter. "You asshole. I'm trying to have a moment with you here."

Matt is giggling so hard that he can't respond, so he pulls one of his hands from Bucky's to point at him in a way that says ' _You set me up for that, that's on_ you _.'_

Bucky can't argue with that, so instead he just buries his face in Matt's knees until his laughter subsides. Matt's free hand comes down to rest on his head.

It takes them a full minute to get themselves back under control, and Bucky's shoulders are still shaking with residual giggles when Matt says, "Okay."

Bucky lifts his face back up, brows furrowed. Matt keeps his hand where it is on the back of his head, and he tries not to think too much about it. "Okay what?"

Matt bites the inside of his cheek for a moment before saying. "Okay, you can distract me. Just for tonight. Let's hear your playlist."

"You sure?" Bucky asks cautiously.

"Yeah," Matt says, then firmer, "Yeah, I'm sure." His hand slips around to cradle the side of Bucky's head, and Bucky doesn't even have time to wonder if it's intentional before his thumb brushes, just once, up and down his temple. "This is me trusting you back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW that was....A Lot. this was a tough chapter for me to write, in terms of both the length of it and the content so THANK YOU so so much for reading, and i would really love to know what you think!!! comments mean the world to me and always keep me motivated! again if you prefer anon i have a cc [here](https://curiouscat.me/pizzadog). the next chapter will be the last one <3


	4. happens great, happens sweet

It takes Bucky a minute to move. When he finally manages to unstick his legs from the floor and stand up, Matt keeps his hand on Bucky's face until he straightens up out of reach and he has no choice but to let it slip away. It floats in the space between them for half a second until Matt lets it drop with a soft sigh.

Bucky's mouth feels dry. He has to swallow twice before he can get his words out. "So. Any requests?"

A soft smile plays at Matt's lips. "Surprise me."

Bucky nods. He lets himself squeeze Matt's shoulder as he makes his way back over to the shelves, and he doesn't miss the way Matt leans into the brief touch. It's the kind of gentle familiarity that had come to define their relationship before, and the hint of normalcy makes his heart well.

He pulls his phone out of his back pocket as he stops in front of the speakers, scrolling through his and Steve's shared Spotify with one hand as he plugs it in. Nothing seems quite right -- all their playlists are too upbeat, or too sad, or are a genre Bucky doesn't think Matt would like, or don't have a cohesive genre at all. A hint of frustration starts nagging at the back of his skull, and he's about to switch over to their saved albums when a playlist finally catches his eye. He pauses, the beginnings of an idea starting to form. It's a little bit of a risk -- he's not sure if Matt will think it's weird, and even if he doesn't, Bucky's not sure it's something Matt can physically handle with his injuries -- but then he thinks, _'Fuck it,'_ he's already taken so many risks with Matt tonight, what's one more?

Besides, they can always take it slow, and with what Bucky has in mind, that's kind of the whole point. 

"Hey Matt," Bucky calls without turning around, "think you can stand for a little bit?"

"I'm not _that_ fragile," Matt grouses. There's a pause, and then, "Why, though?"

Bucky doesn't respond, just bites down on a smile as he hits play. The opening swell of brass instruments fills the room, briefly catapulting him back to summer evenings before the war, when Rebecca would turn on the radio and pull their mother out of her reading chair, and the two of them would spin arm-in-arm around the living room while their father looked on fondly.

Normally, the memory would sting, but this time -- and maybe it's a sign of recovery, or maybe it's just a sign of how his current company makes him feel -- it just makes Bucky feel nostalgic and content, if a little sad, as he walks back over to Matt and stops in front of him. Matt's head is tilted the way it does when he's focusing, and Bucky hopes he's just considering the music and not trying to listen over it for the city's suffering. 

Not that Bucky's going to give him a chance to, though. He does a silly little half-bow, holds his hand out, and asks, "May I have this dance?"

Matt's eyebrows shoot up and a startled laugh bubbles out from between his lips. Whatever he'd been expecting, it clearly wasn't this, and something in Bucky's chest warms at the thought that even with all Matt can read from him, he can still manage to surprise him.

"You -- _ha_ \-- you really want to see a blind man dance?" Matt asks skeptically, but he can't quite keep down the smile pulling at the corners of his lips.

"With your moves?" Bucky straightens up but leaves his hand outstretched, matching Matt's raised eyebrows with one of his own. "There's nothin' I'd rather see."

Matt laughs again, but this time it's bright and loud even as a light blush starts to spread over his face. He slides his hand into Bucky's with a grin. "Careful, Sergeant. That kind of flirting might get us kicked out of this sock hop."

Bucky snorts. "Sock hops weren't a thing until the end of the war, kid." He carefully pulls Matt to his feet, then smirks. "But I'll be sure to leave room for Jesus."

Matt rolls his eyes, but his expression is still warm and open. He lets himself be maneuvered gently into position and softly drums his fingers on Bucky's shoulder when his other hand is placed there.

"Seriously though, I've really never done this before," he tells him.

Bucky squeezes his waist gently. "It's not hard. Just follow my lead."

Matt's lips part around a breath like he's about to say something, but he stops himself, instead biting down on his bottom lip as the corners of his eyes crinkle with a smile. Bucky's heart twists and flutters and thuds at the sight, and -- _yeah_. Yeah, even with all the other admissions he's made tonight, Bucky can still admit to himself that he missed that feeling, too.

Because really, that's the whole thing with Matt: there's no _in-spite-of's,_ just _even-with's_. Even with the way they'd shouted at each other earlier, even with hints of tension still hanging around Matt's shoulders, even with the the way Bucky feels open and anxious and raw now that he's stripped himself of all his pretenses like a live wire -- _even with_ all of that, Matt still makes Bucky feel safe and bright and loved, and there's nothing he wants more than to make Matt feel the same way, even if it's just for one night. 

' _Oh shit._ '

Bucky inhales sharply as the realization hits that, okay, maybe hundred-something year old super soldiers with a kill list a mile long _do_ get crushes, and maybe -- just _maybe_ \-- what he feels for the man in his arms is way past that now. 

' _Oh_ shit.'

"Bucky?"

He blinks rapidly as he comes back to himself to find Matt looking at him with concern. "You alright?"

' _Right._ ' Earth-shattering emotional revelations can happen later. Dancing with Matt is happening now. Bucky shakes his head to clear it and flashes Matt a smile. "Never better." And really, with Matt holding onto him like this, it isn't even that much of a lie. 

There's a moment where Matt doesn't look like he fully believes him, but he relaxes once they start moving. It's not really _dancing_ as much as it is Bucky turning them in slow circles as they meander around the living room, and it's far from the most graceful either of them have ever moved -- there are a couple close calls with furniture, and Matt keeps over-anticipating Bucky's movements and stepping on his feet, and Bucky keeps stopping to check in every time anything even close to a grimace crosses Matt's face -- but it's...nice. Matt is warm in his arms and he can feel the tension slowly seeping out of Matt's body as they fall into something approximating a rhythm. 

By the middle of the next song, Bucky's hand has slipped around to Matt's lower back and Matt's arm has wound its way around Bucky's shoulders, which means he has an up-close view of the way Matt perks up once the lyrics start. It's one of Frank Sinatra's earlier works, but Bucky knows his music is still famous enough that he's not surprised Matt recognizes the voice, even if he doesn't know the specific song. 

Until Matt starts humming along, softly and scratchily in the back of his throat, and Bucky doesn't even have the chance to process that before it escalates to Matt's eyes drifting lazily closed as he sings in a voice barely above a whisper, right along with the line " _I'd love you anywhere, honest I would_."

Bucky _knows_ it's just the lyrics of the song, and Matt's voice isn't even that _good_ , and -- and it doesn't even matter, because Matt's practically crooning into his ear and there's heat pooling in his face and his mouth has gone dry again.

"You, uh." Bucky pauses, licks his lips, tries again. "You know Sinatra?"

Matt's smirk says he knows _exactly_ what he just did, but he still ducks his head like he's _shy_. The little shit. "Everyone knows Sinatra."

Bucky shakes his head to clear it as he huffs out a laugh. "Yeah, if you're over _sixty._  Or a hipster, I guess. Didn't really peg you as the type."

"I've been told I'm an old soul." Matt tilts his face back up to Bucky's, lips still quirked. They're impossibly close. Bucky feels like he's about to buzz out of his skin. "Have to say I didn't really peg you as the type, either."

"I'm not really. 'S one of Steve's playlists."

"Ah. Why am I not surprised?"

Bucky shrugs. "He only listens to this stuff when he's in a mood." Which is why Bucky keeps trying to rename the playlist to ' _Steve's 1940s Dancehall Emo Hour_ ', even if Steve changes it back every time. "He's actually been pretty into Lizzo's music lately."

Matt's eyebrows shoot up. "Oh shut the _fuck_ up, no he has _not_ ," he says, sounding absolutely ecstatic with the knowledge. Whatever electricity had started to build between them with Matt's singing is gone, but it's more than worth it to see his face light up and to feel him almost completely relax against Bucky.

"Are you calling me a liar, Murdock?" Bucky teases.

Matt's smile doesn't fade, exactly, but it turns into something soft and complicated as he answers, "I would never." His voice is still light and joking, but Bucky knows there's something behind his words leftover from the aftermath of their fight, a seriousness that he doesn't quite know how to respond to out loud, so instead he just tightens his grip on Matt's hand. And he knows Matt gets it when he squeezes back.

Bucky thinks he should be embarrassed at the way every small thing Matt does is getting him flustered and tongue-tied, and he is, a little bit, but, well. He's not thinking about _The Realization_ \-- because that's what he's calling it in his head, capital letters and all -- or anything adjacent to it right now. Those are all things that just need to wait until Bucky can scream them into Steve's couch cushions, and any embarrassment he's feeling definitely falls into that category, so he carefully files it away for later. For now, he'll blame his overenthusiastic heartbeat and short-circuiting brain on the proximity and the exhaustion.

Plus, it _has_ been almost two weeks since he's been exposed to Matt Murdock's charms in person.  He's out of practice.

He doesn't recognize the next song, but it's something more upbeat, and Bucky turns them a little faster around the living room in time with the rhythm. Just a little, though, because he doesn't want to push it when he knows Matt inevitably will.

It doesn't take long. Matt starts swaying them back and forth to the music, the intensity steadily increasing right along with the growing tempo -- and right along with his own growing amusement, if his grin is anything to go by -- until it reaches the point where the movement is so over-exaggerated it can't be anything other than intentionally comical. Matt's laughter is infectious, but Bucky still releases Matt's hand and waist to gently grab his ribs and try to hold him still.

"Easy, _easy_ , Murdock," he scolds, but it's hard to sound completely serious when there's still laughter in his voice and Matt is giggling right in his face. "Jesus, kid. Swear to god I've never known anyone on a mission to open their goddamn bullet wounds like you are, and that includes Steve."

Matt pauses to grin at that. "Was that supposed to get me to stop? Because it had, like, the exact opposite effect, Buck. I can't give up the one thing I do better than Captain America." But even as he says it, his swaying slows back down to a gentle rock, and his right hand comes up to rest on Bucky's other shoulder.

Bucky snorts. He slips his hands back around from Matt's sides to his lower back. It's even more intimate than their dance hold, but given the way Matt's lacing his fingers together behind Bucky's neck, he doesn't think he minds. "Please. You do plenty of things better than Steve."

"Oh?" Matt bats his eyelashes in a way Bucky knows is meant to look ridiculous and dramatic but really just looks adorable. "Like what, soldier? And if you say _'being blind'_ I'm going to step on all your toes."

 _'Like making me want to kiss you until I'm out of breath,'_ but Bucky could never say that. Would never say it. Because it doesn't matter how much he thinks Matt might be flirting with him, doesn't matter how he leans into Bucky's arms and sings him corny love songs, doesn't matter how willing Bucky is to tell him about Victoria or HYDRA. Bucky's lost enough in his lifetime, and if this is all his relationship with Matt is ever going to be, he'll take it with without complaint, and he won't risk it for anything. It's better than nothing.

So instead he plasters on a shit-eating grin and says, "Nah, like wearing a Halloween costume all year round."

Matt pouts. "It's body armor."

"You need horns for body armor?"

"The horns are _cool_ ," Matt whines. "I look _cool_."

"Of course you do," Bucky says indulgently, struggling not to laugh as Matt looks more and more wounded with each word. "Whatever you say."

"Wow. I can't believe I gave my first dance to the biggest jerk in New York City."

"Oh yes you can. You knew _exactly_ what you were signing up for."

Matt rolls his eyes, but even under the layers of sarcasm, his voice is almost unbearably fond when he speaks. "Well, I guess it _could_ be worse."

"Yeah?" Bucky really can't help the way his voice goes soft to match.

A huff, a gentle smile. "Yeah."

The silence that follows is comfortable. Bucky gives up moving them around the room in favor of just rocking gently as they turn in slow circles on the spot. Matt tilts his head to the music and lets his eyes drift shut. At some point, his fingers become tangled in the hair at the base of Bucky's neck, gently fidgeting and twisting the strands around. Bucky leans into the touch.

He thinks again about his mother and sister spinning around his childhood living room, about the way his father would eventually stand up and rescue Mom from Rebecca's enthusiasm by taking her hand whenever a slow song came on. Dancing wasn't ever something sacred for Bucky -- he danced with more than a few girls before the war, and even a few guys, in the back of smoky bars where no one could see, and only when everyone was just too drunk to care -- but it always became just that little bit more special with his family. Someday, he thinks, he'll tell Matt about them.

But not tonight. The late evening sun stretches their shadows long across floor, and tonight, Bucky watches the golden light play off Matt's jaw, the line of his throat, and he thinks it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

And then there are sirens screaming past the building, and in the space of an instant Matt is rigid as a corpse and frozen to the ground, and Bucky's heart stops.

"Matt," he says urgently, but all he gets in response is a violent head shake as Matt twists in his arms to face the direction Bucky guesses the emergency is. "Matt, come on."

He might as well be talking to a brick wall. Matt barely moves or breathes, just stares as nothing as every muscle in his body vibrates with -- something. Maybe anticipation. Maybe the effort to keep himself where he's standing. Maybe the Devil.

There's no point in trying to snap him out of it, so Bucky doesn't. He just keeps his hands on Matt and waits for it to pass.

The lively jazz spilling out of the speakers, such a sharp contrast to the sudden dip the mood of the room has taken, sounds like it's coming from far away as Bucky's world narrows down to the man in his arms. It probably only takes a minute. It feels like hours, or like seconds. But eventually Matt exhales long and slow, and the spell breaks. Sound and light rushes back into the room. Bucky can breathe again.

"Everything okay?" he asks softly.

Matt shakes his head, and for a moment Bucky tenses up, but then he's mumbling, "Yeah. Yeah, it's fine. Everyone's okay." He keeps shaking his head, like there's water in his ears, and Bucky realizes he's just trying shake out the screams and the city, to refocus.

Bucky opens his mouth, but Matt is blurting out, "I'm sorry," and he freezes. Matt sounds like he did earlier -- raw and angry and like he's two seconds away from throwing a punch. Except this time, it's not directed at Bucky.

"I'm sorry," Matt says again. "I said I wouldn't listen. That I was trusting you." A derisive, self-deprecating laugh cuts through his words, and he starts stepping back, out of Bucky's arms. "I couldn't stop myself. I--"

"Matt, stop," Bucky cuts him off firmly. "Just--stop. Don't do this to yourself." He tightens his grip on Matt, cutting off his retreat. Matt stops but doesn't relax. His hands are curled into fists on Bucky's shoulders.

"It's okay," Bucky tells him. He knows he could make his voice gentler, more comforting, but he's _tired_ , and Matt's tired, and he doesn't think either of them have the energy to be anything other than direct right now. "It's fine. You were fine."

Matt looks like he wants to argue, but Bucky doesn't let him. "You said everyone was okay, right? In whatever you were listening to. Everyone's okay?"

Matt presses his lips together, but he nods.

"And I'm okay?"

A head tilt as he listens to Bucky's heartbeat. Another nod.

"And you're okay."

This one doesn't come out as a question, but Bucky still waits for Matt to respond before continuing. It takes a long moment, but eventually he nods one more time.

Bucky lets out a long, deep breath. "Then it's okay, yeah? Everything's okay."

There's a tense beat where Bucky thinks Matt might still yank himself away and storm off in a haze of self loathing, but then he's deflating in front of Bucky's eyes for the second time that night.

"Okay," Matt says quietly. "Whatever you say."

Bucky's entirely certain that Matt doesn't really believe him, but he's also entirely certain that this is as close as he'll get tonight, so instead of pressing it he just tugs gently on Matt's shirt to reel him back in. It's unexpected, how easily he comes, stumbling almost hurriedly back into Bucky's arms. Even more unexpected is the way he goes all the way in, closer than they've ever been before, winding his arms around Bucky's shoulders and burying his face in his neck.

Bucky feels his breath catch somewhere between his heart and his throat, and he wraps his arms around Matt and just holds on.  It's disconcerting, the way someone so strong and dangerous feels so small and fragile, how he went from a ball of wound-up fury to limp and resigned in just a few seconds. It's not something Bucky can fix, and he knows that.  But it doesn't make it any easier to see.

He almost forgets about the music still playing in the background until Matt starts rocking minutely back and forth. It's a far cry from their earlier attempts at dancing -- if Bucky had to guess, he'd wager it's a more self-soothing action than anything -- but it's keeping Matt here, in the apartment, in the moment, so Bucky leans into the motion.  He searches for words, but there's nothing left to say. Bucky can feel Matt's exhaustion almost as strongly as he can feel his own, and he gets the sense he's the only thing keeping Matt on his feet right now. He knows Matt's the only thing keeping him on his.

The sun is almost completely set, and the only light left is the shifting colors of the billboard. The street outside is quiet. Vera Bradley's gentle crooning filters out from the speakers and slowly fills the room around them.  It's close enough to peaceful.

"The food's probably all cold," Bucky says after a several minutes of gentle swaying. It feels like a lifetime ago that he stepped foot in Matt's apartment with the intention of having dinner with him, but he doesn't need super senses to hear the way Matt's stomach has started grumbling. 

"I have a microwave," Matt murmurs into his neck, before lifting his face to Bucky's. His arms tighten around Bucky's shoulders, just a touch. "Let's finish the song?"

Bucky's surprised by the note of genuine pleading in Matt's voice. What he's not surprised by is the way it makes something in him ache, or the way he instantly crumbles to it.

He leans the few centimeters in to touch their foreheads together. Matt sighs shakily. He doesn't pull away.

"Sure thing, Matty," Bucky whispers, watching as the hazy shapes of Matt's eyelids flutter shut. "Whatever you want."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, i'm so sorry this update took so long! my summer class started right before i posted the previous chapter and i got really busy really quickly. thank you for your patience!
> 
> and, of course, thank you so much for reading! this fic is the longest thing i've written in literal years and while it was definitely a labor of love, it was tough to drag myself over the finish line, so all your amazing comments really kept me encouraged! i'm bad at replying but please know that i really did treasure each comment, and kudos also meant the world to me. i never expected this kind of response (or any response at all tbh) for my silly rarepair fic, and i appreciate it more than i could ever say!
> 
> i do have a few more fics planned for this series - i can't say when they'll be coming, because i really don't know, but i'll do my best to get them out there eventually so we can finally resolve this romantic tension and maybe even get some happiness for these clowns. until then, i hope you enjoyed this chapter, and the fic as a whole!


End file.
